


Scenes From A Memory

by Moontyger



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2143194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair thinks back, remembering how he got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes From A Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Niki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/gifts).



It never would have happened if Duncan hadn't died. Of course, that was true of most things about Alistair's life after Ostagar. If Duncan had lived, he and Theron wouldn't have been the last two Grey Wardens left in Ferelden. They wouldn't have been hunted as traitors and forced to keep their progress as quiet as possible. 

They would still have journeyed the length and breadth of Ferelden seeking allies, however; if Duncan hadn't intended that, he wouldn't have sent them after the treaties to begin with. But instead of hiding in a remote camp while they traveled, they'd have been staying in inns or even been put up by citizens as much as possible.

In an environment like that, where Grey Wardens were respected, like they had (at least mostly) been when Alistair had been recruited, they would have been colleagues and maybe even friends, but he doubted they would ever have been more than that. It was the secrecy that pushed them together; the isolation that made them rely on each other to a more than ordinary degree. Even if they had disliked each other, they'd have had no other choice. No matter who else they recruited as part of their little band, they were the Grey Wardens and only a Grey Warden could end the Blight.

But maybe that was all just so many excuses, justifications after the fact that didn't really justify anything. He was trying to explain the inexplicable. How could anyone justify who they loved?

* * *

When they met in the army camp at Ostagar, Alistair's first thought was that Theron wasn't what he'd been expecting. It was a stupid thought and even he knew it. He knew where Duncan had gone seeking recruits; it shouldn't be a surprise that he'd returned with one.

Maybe it was just that he'd never met any Dalish before. Theron wasn't the first elf he'd met; Redcliffe was a little provincial, but it wasn't _that_ bad. And of course there had been some amongst the mages. But none of them were Dalish; even the elves in the Tower had all lived with humans before.

He hadn't thought it would make much difference. Elves who lived in the city; elves who lived in the woods – weren't they all, well, elves just the same? Humans weren't so different, no matter where _they_ lived.

But Theron was. It was in the way he carried himself, the pride and dignity that Alistair knew he lacked. He couldn't imagine this man as a servant like the other elves in the camp, all downcast eyes and ready “Yes, sir” replies. Instead he met Alistair's gaze boldly. The eye contact wasn't challenging, or at least Alistair didn't see it that way, but it was clear he considered them equals. And why shouldn't he? It hadn't been that long since Alistair had been just such a new recruit: proud to be chosen, but also with no idea what he'd really gotten himself into.

When he thought about it now, he'd been drawn to Theron from the start. Somehow he was like... like a walking oasis of quiet amidst all the noise and chaos that came with an army preparing for a major battle. Probably that was just the way Alistair remembered it, though. (If he actually told Theron that, he was pretty sure he'd say something like “You mean I stuck out like a halla in the middle of Denerim,” and that was part of it, but it was more than that.) The point was that Theron had made an impression right from the start – more of an impression than the other recruits had.

But Alistair hadn't really known him then. He didn't want to get attached to any of the new recruits, not until they went through the Joining, and anyway, there hadn't been time. Theron was the last of the recruits; in some ways, his arrival had been the signal for the battle itself.

There'd be time for getting to know the new Warden afterwards, he'd thought. And it was true, just not in the way Alistair expected. They had allies to recruit; the Grey Warden name to redeem; Loghain to stop; and a Blight to end – it was a daunting list, but that didn't mean there wasn't still plenty of time to get to know one another. It wasn't all grand heroics or even all hard work; long marches were particularly grim when undertaken in silence and Theron wasn't such a drill sergeant that he kept them on their feet until they had only enough energy to put up their tents and then fall into them.

Alistair hadn't been much help there, at least not at first. Time had given him enough distance to see that. Right then, however, all he'd seen was what he'd lost: both somewhere he finally belonged and a man he both cared about and greatly admired. Cailan, too, in an odd way; he hadn't expected to miss him and considering, well, basically everything about both their lives, they could never have really been close, but there had been something kind of nice about working for his half-brother, even as just another Warden.

Morrigan hadn't helped matters. Being mocked wasn't exactly a new experience for Alistair, but that didn't mean he enjoyed it. If he'd had to endure her gibes alone, he didn't know what would have happened, but he couldn't imagine it would have been anything good.

But he hadn't been alone, had he? After Lothering, after the nightmares began for him, Theron had joined him by the fire. It was the first time they'd really spoken since Ostagar. 

Alistair had been staring into the flames, watching them flicker and change, colors continually shifting so it was hard to see clear boundaries between them. It was a metaphor, something like that, he thought, about life or the Blight or maybe everything. He couldn't put it into words, but there was something comforting about it, something more than the heat and light.

Alistair had been exhausted, but he hadn't been sleeping. It wasn't the nightmares, or at least, not the ones brought by the Taint that he feared. And it wasn't that sleeping in a tent was so uncomfortable; he'd slept in far worse conditions. He just couldn't seem to make his mind rest. Every time he lay down to sleep, he'd find himself wide awake instead, the events of that final disastrous battle at Ostagar playing over and over in his head. He tried not to, but all he could do was think of all the things he should have known or done differently.

Maybe Theron had realized he hadn't been asleep, little things like the fact that Alistair was still fully dressed giving him away. Or maybe Theron hadn't been that eager to go back to sleep himself after dreaming of the archdemon. Alistair couldn't blame him if that had been it. Whatever his reasons, he'd joined Alistair by the fire.

Alistair didn't even remember exactly what he'd said, though he knew they'd talked about Duncan and Ostagar. What he remembered about that night was the way Theron _looked_ : the reflection of the flames turning his green eyes nearly golden and waking red highlights in his long dark hair. If he closed his eyes, he could still see it. And he remembered how their conversation made him feel. The exact words weren't important, what mattered was that it made him realize he hadn't lost everything.

He hadn't realized it at the time, but that night was when he began to fall for his fellow Warden.

* * *

“You should tell him how you feel.”

“What?” They'd been on the move again, trekking through difficult, desolate country for hours already. Alistair had been busy concentrating on not turning an ankle; he'd already nearly fallen once, when a rock that had looked sturdy had instead given way under his foot, rolling off down the hillside while he struggled for balance. Morrigan had made one of her usual cutting remarks, which hardly seemed fair. Not everyone had grown up doing this sort of thing and besides, she wasn't trying to do it dressed in several pounds of metal.

“You should tell him,” Leliana repeated, walking a little faster to be able to fall in beside Alistair and keep up with his longer stride.

“I don't know what you mean.”

“I have seen the way you look at him. Your gaze lingers and you hang on his every word. I recognize the signs: you are in love.” Leliana nodded, as though to punctuate her statement with a gesture of certainty.

Alistair turned his head to stare at her and nearly tripped; this wasn't the kind of terrain where it was safe to not watch where he was going. He managed to right himself without attracting too much attention from the others this time, and surely it was only a coincidence that doing so let him avoid eye contact while he replied. “Oh, no, it's nothing like that. He's just... different.” Different in a way Alistair found fascinating, but that wasn't love. Was it? 

“Can it be you do not know?” Leliana's blue eyes were wide when Alistair took another peek at her face. It seemed she had never considered this possibility.

“Or maybe you're just wrong.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I am a bard. Do you think I only sing about love and do not know it when I see it? I have seen this many times before.”

_Maybe you're just trying to make this into a better song._ Even Alistair could see all the ingredients were there: the bastard prince and the exotic elf and their grand quest to save the world. But she sounded so certain that it was beginning to make him wonder. He gazed off at Theron, walking at the head of their group with the sort of easy grace he could only envy. _Theron_ didn't trip or get his feet stuck in mud. The way he walked, you'd think anywhere they went was smooth, level ground.

_Admiration isn't love either._ But he heard his own voice asking, “How would I say that sort of thing anyway?”

“You could start by giving him compliments,” Leliana suggested.

“What, just tell him he has nice eyes or something?”

“Why not? Everyone likes to hear that they are attractive.” 

“I don't know about that. Just imagine if someone tried to tell Sten he had nice eyes.”

They laughed together then, then laughed harder when Sten made an annoyed noise because they'd stopped in the middle of the path and brushed past them. It wasn't entirely nice, but that didn't mean Alistair hadn't been right.

“Well, maybe not everyone,” Leliana conceded. “But if you don't try it, you will never know.”

* * *

Several days passed before Alistair worked up the nerve to say anything. It wasn't all cowardice; darkspawn attacks were picking up and they'd all been too tired to have much in the way of deep conversation after they made camp.

He'd considered Leliana's advice, but when it came down to actually using it, he couldn't do it. He couldn't just sit there by the fire and tell his fellow Warden that he had nice eyes or even that he liked the way Theron's hair looked when he took it out of its braid. That it was true didn't help; that just made it harder to actually get the words out.

He took a different approach, one easier to deny if things got too uncomfortable. “Did you have anyone back home? I mean, before Duncan recruited you.” Alistair tried to make it sound casual, though his heart hammered and his palms sweated like he was walking into an ambush rather than just asking a simple question.

“I'm an orphan, too, if that's what you mean.” If Theron had noticed Alistair's discomfort, he gave no sign of it, just paused in the midst of slicing an apple into wedges to glance over at him.

“Oh. I'm sorry; I didn't know that.” Alistair paused awkwardly, watching while Theron continued cutting the apple, the movements of the knife quick and sure despite the poor light. When he was finished, Theron extended a hand toward Alistair, a few wedges resting on his palm in a silent offer to share.

Alistair took the gesture as a sign that it was all right to continue, so he tried again after accepting and eating one of the apple slices. “I meant... were you betrothed or anything? Do the Dalish even get betrothed?”

Theron's look was a little more penetrating this time. He kept his eyes locked on Alistair's until Alistair had to look away, which wasn't saying much under the circumstances. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don't know. We're always talking about me. I thought it'd be nice to learn more about you for a change.” At least that had the ring of truth to it, probably because it was. It just wasn't the whole truth.

Theron still looked a little skeptical, but he apparently saw no reason to refuse to answer. “No, I hadn't found anyone yet.” He stared off into the fire, his expression faintly troubled. “If I'd stayed, maybe I'd have started looking.”

Alistair was still trying to think of a response when Theron spoke again. “What about you?”

“Me? No, nothing like that. Eamon couldn't arrange a marriage for me without telling people about my father. And then he sent me to be a Templar, so there was that whole vow of chastity thing.”

“A vow of chastity?” Alistair couldn't be sure, but he thought Theron seemed vaguely appalled. On the other hand, at least he didn't think it was all a big joke like everyone else Alistair met seemed to. “That must have been hard.”

“Not really. Well, maybe sometimes.” Alistair couldn't help thinking that it would have been a lot more difficult if someone like Theron had been there. But he could hardly just _say_ that, so he did his best to laugh it off. “I think that's enough awkward conversation for one night. See you in the morning.”

If he lay awake for hours after that, too caught up in imagining all the ways Theron could have tempted him to break that vow to get to sleep, no one had to know.

* * *

“There's no shame in it, you know.” Wynne sounded a little out of breath, so Alistair courteously slowed his step to let her catch up. 

“No shame in what?”

“You and your fellow Grey Warden. I'd say it's only natural. Many people find comfort in each other in trying times.”

_Maker, had **everyone** noticed?_ He hadn't realized he'd been that obvious about it. “I don't think we're finding comfort in each other in the way you mean.”

Wynne pressed her lips together and gave him the kind of look that made him feel like a child caught out doing something he shouldn't. “I am old, Alistair, but I'm not blind.”

Had it been anyone else, Alistair might have continued to deny it or just walked away. But even if he wanted to, he couldn't do that to Wynne. She might be a mage, but Alistair had never met someone both so kind and so determined to do what was right – and that included the Grand Cleric. Everything about her proclaimed that she deserved to be treated with respect. (Admittedly, she sometimes also rivaled the Grand Cleric in her fondness for lecturing him, but he was used to that. Women of a certain age tended to mother him; Alistair didn't like to think too much about what that said about how he must seem to them.) 

“I never thought you were.” He meant that sincerely; Wynne's eyes were still sharp and a life lived mostly in the Circle Tower did not mean she lacked either experience or wisdom. Theron wasn't the only one to value her advice; they all did. (Well, probably not Morrigan, but Alistair found that more an argument in Wynne's favor than a strike against her.) “But you might be a little premature.”

“Then perhaps you should do something about that.”

Alistair stopped dead and just stared at her. Maybe his mouth even gaped a little. Was she really suggesting...?

Wynne laughed, but it was gentle, devoid of even a hint of mockery. “I have not always been an old woman.”

“Well, no. I knew that. I'm sorry. I just didn't expect that kind of advice.” Alistair began walking again, staring at his feet and wishing he'd learned rogue skills instead of his Templar training. Sometimes it would be really nice to be able to vanish from view for awhile. "Do you think just asking would be all right, or do I really need to club him over the head and drag him to my tent?"

Wynne smiled a little at that, but otherwise she gave no sign she'd heard his attempted jest. Pity, probably - it hadn't been very good. Or maybe she just wasn't easily distracted when she was trying to have a serious conversation. “I'm sorry to have to give it. But you have to remember, Alistair: we are at war. This is a Blight, or so you tell me, and you are Grey Wardens. Who knows how much time any of us have left?”

* * *

Wynne was right, of course, but that didn't make acting on her advice any easier. Any time Alistair even thought about it, he'd see Zevran leering at them from the other side of the fire or he'd think he caught Leliana watching them with a sly, knowing smile. He wished for a keep and a room with sturdy walls and a door he could shut. How could anyone do anything when other people were always around?

It was the weather that proved the deciding factor. The day had dawned bright enough, but they'd only been walking an hour or two when the dark clouds rolled in. By early afternoon, Theron called a halt; the persistent driving rain made it hard to see and softened the ground until it sucked at armored boots with every step. Given the conditions, he didn't think it worth continuing. They were more likely to injure themselves due to the weather than make real progress.

Alistair was glad to stop. The soaked padding under his armor made it feel twice its usual weight and his legs ached from slogging through the mud. However, he quickly found that setting up camp in a downpour like this one was nearly as difficult as continuing. The tents fought like live things, flapping wildly in the wind and straining at their stakes. When Theron suggested they share a tent in order to minimize the time spent struggling with wet canvas, it seemed only sensible. 

Once inside, however, Alistair felt so awkward that he almost said he'd changed his mind and left. If he'd been alone, he'd have immediately removed his armor: not only was it uncomfortable, but he needed to set the padding out to dry as much as it could before he had to put it back on in the morning. But Theron was right there, close enough to touch, and he wasn't sure how he'd react if Alistair just started stripping. 

It was lucky for them both that Theron was the practical sort. He took one look at Alistair and seemed to instantly grasp the difficulty. “Do you need any help with that?”

Before Alistair could even consider refusing, Theron had closed the distance between them and starting working on the buckles that held his breastplate together. Alistair looked up at him and realized it might as well be a sign from the Maker. He'd never get a better chance.

He took a deep breath, then turned enough to be able to wrap his arms around Theron's waist and pull him in for a kiss.

In retrospect, the moment wasn't as perfect as it seemed. It had actually been a rather spectacularly dumb thing to do. They were both cold and soaking wet, not to mention still clad in stiff, uncomfortable armor. And he'd never asked Theron how he felt; he could have shoved Alistair away and made him go set up his own tent after all.

But it didn't turn out like that. Theron kissed him back with enthusiasm and, when they finally separated, Alistair couldn't even hold the smugness of his smile against him.

“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think I'd have to come up with an excuse to crawl naked into your bedroll.”

That mental image was hot enough that Alistair kissed him again instead of pointing out that Theron could have just said something himself. This time, however, Theron squirmed away much sooner.

“Hold that thought. We still have to get you out of this wet armor.”

* * *

It was some weeks later and Alistair's turn at watch, though he was too distracted to be doing the best job of it. As a case in point, when Zevran cleared his throat, Alistair wasn't sure just how long the assassin had been sitting beside him.

“Did you want something?”

“I couldn't help but notice that you seem rather preoccupied. Do you not have every reason to be happy?”

Alistair snorted, then resumed picking grass, shredding the blades as though that would somehow shred all his problems, too. He wasn't surprised Zevran didn't understand. What would he know about duty? “I don't need your advice.”

“Truly? I have very good hearing, you know, and what I hear from your tent these days suggests otherwise. I could give you some tips, maybe some -”

Alistair put his hands over his ears: a childish gesture, but a satisfying one. “I'm not hearing this.”

Zevran tsked a little and shook his head. “You Fereldans are so prudish. It is a wonder you have not died out already.”

Alistair lowered his hands, but he still didn't look directly at Zevran. “Is that really what you came over here to say?”

“No,” Zevran admitted, though he apparently couldn't resist adding, “but you know where to find me when you wish to hear it. I merely wished to point out that things are not so complicated as you may believe.”

Alistair glanced over at him then, a little surprised. Zevran met his gaze and, for once, he seemed entirely serious. “I don't know what you mean.”

“You are thinking that you are to be king now, yes? And that a human king cannot be taking a handsome Dalish elf as his consort.”

He really had to work on being less obvious. Everyone always knowing what he was thinking was getting old. But while Alistair couldn't bring himself to be gracious about it, of course Zevran was right. “I'm listening.”

“You are overthinking it,” Zevran said bluntly. “Between the two of you, nothing has to change. You would not be the first king to keep a lover on the side.”

“I thought of that,” Alistair admitted. “But it doesn't seem very fair to Theron.”

“Have you asked him?” 

“No.” Alistair stared off into the dark and shredded more grass, then sighed. “How do you ask someone that? 'Hey, we'll have to keep it secret and I'll probably have to marry someone else, but will you stay with me anyway?'” He made a face and tossed the ragged bits of grass aside disgustedly.

“Not everyone would find that so bad.”

Alistair just shook his head in reply, so Zevran continued. “You see? I told you that you needed my advice.”

“I don't think your 'advice' will help.”

“Such skepticism! You wound me. But consider this: if you cannot say the words, there are other ways to ask.”

Alistair considered it as instructed, then had to admit he had no idea what Zevran was talking about. He was sure he was going to regret it, but he asked anyway. “Like what?”

Somehow Zevran's expression suggested both that Alistair was hopeless and that he had never expected otherwise. “There is a saying, something about actions speaking louder than words. If you cannot say it, show him.”

That made a lot more sense than Alistair was expecting. Maybe Zevran wasn't as bad as he'd sometimes thought. He stared down at his lap, now covered in tiny bits of grass, and thought about it. What could he do to show Theron that while he'd do his duty, that didn't mean he wanted him to leave?

“I wish I knew how the Dalish did it,” he said at last. “I can't marry him, but maybe I can court him or something. Do it properly as much as I can.”

“Is it not a little late for that? No, do not give me that look. I didn't say I would not help.” Zevran gave Alistair a conspiratorial smile. “Let me see. Did we not meet someone amongst his clan seeking to court another?”

“I'd forgotten all about that,” Alistair admitted. Perhaps it didn't speak very well of him that he had, but he'd been more interested in seeing where Theron came from than in the problems of the individual elves. “Something about proving he was a good hunter, wasn't it?”

“Yes, that was it. Perhaps you could present him with the heads of his enemies?” 

“You want me to give him a bunch of darkspawn heads?”

“You make a good point. Perhaps just the ears?” Zevran laughed heartily at Alistair's expression. “If it doesn't work, you could still just tell him you don't want him to go.”

* * *

In the end, Alistair gave him his mother's amulet. “I know it's a bit stupid,” he admitted. “It's just a chantry amulet and it's not even new. But when you gave it to me, you said I was special to you. And I... I'm giving it back to tell you that you're special to me, too.”

Theron looked at the amulet thoughtfully, using a finger to trace one of the worst cracks in silence. “You don't have to give me this to tell me that,” he said at last, tilting his head back enough to meet Alistair's look with one of his own. He was serious, even solemn, but Alistair could tell he didn't understand.

“I know that. That's not... I'm making a real hash of this, aren't I?” Of course it would turn out this way. All that time trying to come up with the perfect gesture and he ended up having to put it into words anyway. Not for the first time, Alistair thought that they were making a big mistake putting him in charge of anything, much less a country. But he couldn't back down now; this was too important. So he took a deep breath and tried again. “We're going to go in this Landsmeet today and you're going to try to make me King. We both know what that means.”

Theron looked down at the amulet again. “So this is a farewell gift? Then -”

“NO!” Alistair interrupted, surprising even himself with the force of his denial. “It's just the opposite. I know it's a lot to ask, but I want you to **stay** special to me. If you see what I mean.” 

“I see.” Theron looked surprised, but not unhappy. “You know, my people wouldn't approve either. We aren't supposed to have relationships outside the clans.”

Until he said that, Alistair hadn't realized how much he'd been hoping that Theron would agree. He'd known it was unfair, far too much to ask of anyone, but he'd hoped he could somehow make up for that. Now he couldn't even bring himself to argue. “I understand.”

“No, let me finish. I was going to say it was far too late for that. It was probably too late the day I met you at Ostagar." He smiled up at Alistair, though his eyes were still a little sad. "Of course I'll do it. I'll be here for you as much as I can.”

There were no words that could properly express Alistair's relief and joy, but Zevran had been right in this much at least: some things didn't need words.

* * *

“I cannot imagine why you're so upset.” Morrigan looked thoroughly disgusted with Alistair, but then she often did. This time, however, she might even have a point, loath as he was to admit it. “He has already agreed to stay with you, despite the fact that circumstances mean you cannot be faithful. What is one night with me in the face of that?”

“Maybe I just think he shouldn't have to touch you.” It was meaner than Alistair usually got, but Morrigan always knew how to push his buttons.

She could have been angry, but instead she just _looked_ at him, lips curved in her familiar proud, mocking smile. It was as though nothing they had been through had touched her or maybe nothing could and Alistair was suddenly glad he didn't have to do this. Morrigan was pleasant to look at - even Alistair had to admit that - but she was so cold he felt no desire to do more than look. Her beauty was more like that of a frog Theron had once pointed out during their travels: bright, beautiful colors to warn of the poison within. A poison that her next words delivered, as if to prove his point. “Or maybe you're afraid he'll like it too much.”

“No. I trust him more than that.” Alistair crossed his arms over his chest and glared to hide his internal cringe at the obviousness of the lie. It _should_ be true; he _wanted_ it to be true. But it wasn't. He kept thinking that any day now, Theron would regret the choice he'd made. Then he'd leave and there would be nothing at all that Alistair could do about it.

It didn't help that while Alistair and Morrigan had never gotten along, Theron seemed to like her well enough. Alistair had seen them sometimes, talking by her separate, distant fire, and wondered what they were talking about. But he'd never asked and he knew better than to try to creep near enough to eavesdrop, so he didn't know what Theron saw in her. After Theron had agreed to stay, Alistair hadn't worried about it, but this made all his insecurities and doubts seem fresh and new, scars ripped open unexpectedly to bleed and ache all over again.

Morrigan must have known all this, but she was at least merciful enough not to say it aloud. “Then you should be pleased. The archdemon will be dead and you will both survive. Isn't that what you wanted?” Morrigan arched one plucked eyebrow at him and Alistair felt like twelve kinds of a fool. “Once it's done, I will vanish and neither of you need ever see me again.”

He shook his head, wondering why he was bothering. He already knew this argument was pointless. Maybe he was just fighting to distract himself, trying to get the mental images out of his head. “I don't have to like it.”

“You don't. But it makes no difference whether you like it or not. As I'm sure he told you, he's already agreed to it.”

* * *

Even now, Alistair still felt angry when he thought about it, though the emotion was faded, a mere echo of what it had once been. Morrigan had, after all, been entirely right. The Dark Ritual _was_ the perfect solution to an impossible situation that he'd so desperately wanted. And it had made no difference to his relationship with Theron.

They didn't see each other as often as either of them wanted. They both had their duties and they didn't always permit them to be in the same place simultaneously. But neither of them ever left for good and the absences just made the reunions that much sweeter.

Alistair smiled a little to himself in anticipation. Tomorrow, Theron would be returning to Denerim and Alistair had managed to clear his schedule enough to allow them three whole uninterrupted days together. It might not seem like much, but it was more than they'd had in quite some time.

He might have been right when he'd thought that it never would have happened if Duncan had lived. In fact, he probably was. But reluctant as Alistair was to admit that anything good could have come out of Duncan's death (and despite how much he still missed him), when he thought of his relationship with Theron, he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.


End file.
